


Not Brave Enough

by wordsinpaper



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: AU where there's no Spatula Guy, Connor is barely there, M/M, Oliver's POV, but without changing canon a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinpaper/pseuds/wordsinpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver has his keychain in hand and is about to pick the right key to insert into his lock. He stops when he notices a bouquet of light-colored roses lying on the floor in front of the apartment door 304.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Brave Enough

**Author's Note:**

> theexistencegame on tumblr suggested I take Spatula Guy out of the picture, so I tried to do that without having to change the course of canon following that scene. I hope it makes sense in a way? Also, I'm so sorry it took such an angsty turn? I swear I didn't mean to go there. Really. Oliver just has a lot of feelings.

Oliver wasn't moping; he was dealing. Big difference.

His colleagues at work had noticed he was different lately. Less chipper, they'd said. They were being nice and avoiding saying it looked like he had gotten dumped and was pretending everything was cool.

He was the one who had kicked Connor out after he found that recording – though there's no way they could have known about that. And how could he have thought Connor was taking any of it seriously?

“That guy was just sex,” is what Connor had said, as if that made it all okay somehow. As if Oliver should have been okay with Connor going out and sleeping with random dudes to help his boss if, in the end, none of it was meaningful.

What if there had been more? What if he was just the one Connor came back to because Oliver was always so damn easy? After all, that's what got them here to start with, wasn't it? He had agreed to give Connor information he wasn't supposed to disclose. And did it just so he could have Connor’s undivided attention a little while longer.

It's been a few weeks since that fateful night Connor dropped a bucket of cold water on what Oliver had thought was their relationship and ruined it all. Since then, Oliver has hooked up with a few guys, but never anything too serious. His coworkers noticed he went from not interacting with dudes in bars that often to having a few one night stands in a short span of time.

He thinks that they started paying more attention since that one time he’d overheard them talking about how he and Connor met. One of his colleagues brought up how they were all not-so-subtly watching Connor and Oliver talk. Then another of his coworkers joked about how the two had vanished out of thin air, with quick steps and light smiles. Oliver figures might not have been as smooth that night as he thought. Someone in the group had to have done the math and came to the obvious conclusion that something bad went down between the two of them.

So now Oliver and his work colleagues usually hang out at a bar after work. They sometimes get drunk when they don't have to deal with a huge workload the next day. However, the firm he works at is updating their security systems, so the IT team is keeping busy.

That's why he's only had one drink and barely feels the alcohol buzzing through his veins when he's making his way to his front door.

Oliver has his keychain in hand and is about to pick the right key to insert into his lock. He stops when he notices a bouquet of light-colored roses lying on the floor in front of the apartment door 304.

He wouldn't have thought twice about it, if the apartment hadn’t been vacated only two weeks before.

There's a sudden spark of hope in his chest. Maybe they were meant for him and whoever delivered them got the door number wrong?

No. What is he even saying? Why would someone send him flowers? That's just silly. He hasn't met someone recently that could be serious enough to sen— unless... No. That's even more ridiculous, and Oliver is backtracking from that thought so fast he takes an actual step back.

He snickers at himself and focuses on his keys again, picking the right one with now anxious fingers.

He unlocks his door and opens it, throwing one last look at the roses over his shoulder. That's when Oliver notices the small white card tucked between the flowers and the soft brown paper.

Fingers lifting from the doorknob, he turns back around and picks up the flowers. He reaches for the card, trying not to disturb the arrangement of the bouquet.

Oliver is pretty sure there's bound to be something in the card that will help him figure out who the flowers are meant for.

He goes back into his apartment and closes the door behind him. Putting his keys down on the kitchen island, he leans against it and opens the card with gentle fingers.

_I was wrong and I never should have done what I did. I'm sorry it took me this long to figure it out. I hope you can forgive me. – Connor_

Yeah. He read the card three times now. He's pretty sure he's reading it right.

So maybe the flowers really were for him. No, no maybe, they were definitely for him.

And oh God, he needs to sit down.

Placing the bouquet on the coffee table in front of his TV, Oliver takes a seat on his couch. He takes a moment – or five minutes – to stare at the pale yellow roses as if they hold all the answers.

There is so much running through his head right now, he feels himself becoming dizzy. A turmoil of repressed thoughts and even more repressed feelings is struggling to come to the surface and break free.

Oliver regrets not having a few more drinks earlier. He is way too sober to deal with this.

So, instead, he gets up and walks into his bedroom, taking his clothes off and changing into something more comfortable to sleep in. Picking his phone from his pants’ pocket, Oliver takes the time to text some of his colleagues, asking if they made it home okay. Some of them were pretty plastered when he left.

He walks into the bathroom to dump his clothes in the basket. He empties his bladder, brushes his teeth and splashes some water on his face. Looking at his face in the mirror, Oliver notices the deep frown. No matter how hard he tries to push everything to the back of his mind, it’s still obvious that his brain is trying to make sense of it all.

He steps out of the bathroom, turning off the lights and closing the door behind him. Walking to his bedside table, he picks up the phone to three new messages. Everyone is safe and sound, about to turn off from the world for a few hours. He should do the same.

He pulls back the covers, but hesitates. If he doesn’t do something about the flowers, they’ll have a quick death. It’s not their fault. They’re still beautiful regardless of the meaning and chaos of emotions they're attached to.

With a sigh, Oliver returns to the living room and picks up the bouquet once more. He unties the twine keeping the flower stems close and tight, and unwraps the light-brown paper. Placing it all down on the kitchen island, he turns back around to get a vase from the back of his cupboard by the sink. He fills it with water and places the beautiful roses in it.

Cleaning up the paper, twine and loose leaves, he takes the vase back to the living room. He puts it down on his desk by the window, so it’ll get some sunlight once morning comes.

Throwing one last appreciative look at them, Oliver walks back to his room and closes the door for good measure. It helps, in a way. As silly as it may sound, it’s as if Oliver is keeping his messed up ball of emotions closed in that other room. It's the only way he'll go to bed with a clear head, no thoughts plaguing his tired mind and even more worn-out heart.

Surprisingly enough, it seems to have worked, because he falls asleep as soon as he gets comfortable in his bed.

It’s morning now and Oliver is currently sipping on his coffee when he looks up and freezes. He’d almost forgotten about it. Not in a I’m-deleting-you-from-my-memory way, but more like you-haven’t-crossed-my-mind-yet-today. But leaning back against his kitchen counter now and looking at the vase…

The roses look different now, under a different light, but they're still as beautiful as they looked the night before. Positively exquisite. Oliver knows nothing about flowers himself, but he can't deny the roses sitting in that vase are stunning. The sunlight gives them an almost otherworldly glow. The delicate pale petals now take on a white-grey hue under the early morning light spilling through the open blinds.

He’s so mesmerized by the whole thing, he finds himself almost choking on his coffee. He swallows it down; both the coffee and the sudden rush of emotion he keeps pushing down, not wanting to deal with it.

Oliver leaves the mug in the sink and doesn’t look at the glass vase again when he picks up his laptop and all but runs out of his apartment.

Work is mindless. He feels like he’s just going through the motions, working on auto-pilot. A colleague stops by Oliver’s desk to ask if he’s okay. He just nods and comments on how tired he still feels from the previous night. That’s not it all, of course, but it’s close enough to the truth that he can trick himself into actually believing it.

When the day is done, Oliver returns home. He drops the keys onto the kitchen island after he locks the door behind him. He heats up some leftovers and turns on the TV to serve as a distraction. In reality, what he’s trying to do is avoid looking at the roses. In his mind, he pictures the lights from the street peeking through his blinds. He imagines them hitting the glass vase and splashing a million colors and shapes across his walls.

He takes longer than he needs to when washing the dishes. With his back turned to them, there’s no way his mind will wander, he tells himself. But isn’t that exactly what is happening?

His fingers itch to find his phone, dial a number or send a quick text, but he stops himself every time. He’s not the one that should say anything, right? After all, Connor left the flowers in front of the wrong door, so that means he regretted coming by at all. But why leave the card? Why leave them at all?

Oliver shakes his head and decides to take a shower instead and go to bed early. He doesn’t stop himself from looking at the pale yellow roses sitting under the moonlight once before getting into bed. He doesn’t need to close the door this time around.

The following day starts much like any other. He finds himself looking at the delicate flowers again while having breakfast. It’s the only time of the day he allows his mind to stretch as far as the horizon goes. He relives things, words, actions, feelings. He remembers things he thought were forever lost in his forgetfulness from before. His bottled up feelings scratch the surface, but he never lets them out. He’s afraid of what might happen if he does.

His fingers still itch to find their way to that one contact in his phone. He hates himself for knowing how badly he wants to hear _that_ voice again, wants to hear it say his name, plead with him. But it never happens, because his phone won’t ring, and he sure as hell won’t be making any calls.

It becomes a thing. The mornings come with the contemplation of what ifs and questioning past wrongdoings. In turn, the nights end with one long last glance at the dying flowers before the lights go out. The rest of his days go from sadness to anger. He's conflicted about what to do next.

It’s been four days since he brought the flowers home when he finds himself sitting at his desk at work. For the past half hour, he's been trying to salvage a new project that just doesn’t seem to be working anymore. That's when he comes to the conclusion that something will have to change soon, because he can’t go through this again.

Oliver pushes back from his desk and makes his way to the restroom. He splashes cold water on his face and braces himself against the sink, feeling a wavering headache eating away at his sanity.

For all that Connor protested when Oliver was pushing him out of his apartment, he never said a word again afterwards. The first few days were agony for Oliver. He didn’t know if Connor would be back or if he’d just go on to find another hacker willing to help him out with cases. Maybe he’d even scratch that itch for Connor, too. He’d felt used, when weeks had passed and there was still no sign of Connor.

He’d shrugged it off and his colleagues and friends had unknowingly helped. And he was doing so well…

And now Connor dumps a bouquet of roses at his doorstep – or better yet, across the hall from his door – and doesn’t do or say anything else.

It’s getting more and more difficult to rip off that band-aid.

Taking one last look at the mirror, Oliver decides that the flowers need to go. He can’t keep torturing himself over this.

When he gets home, however, looking at two fallen petals, he can’t bring himself to do it just yet, and he hates himself for it. He can’t let go.

Two more days pass. Each day that goes by, the roses start to lose more and more of their vibrant presence in his living room. Their soft and sweet flowery smell is starting to vanish as well. He had to throw out some of the roses already, and the ones still left are becoming paler and paler. Their petals keep peeling back, the water no longer doing enough and Oliver wonders if the poor dying things serve as a metaphor for anything in his life, but his feelings haven't been withering. Instead, all the emotions he's tried so hard to repress have yet to move from their quiet corner. He silenced them, yes, but he didn't succeed in making them go away.

After a long day at work, he finds himself slamming the door behind him before he’s crossing the room. He picks up the glass vase, and stops himself just seconds before he sends it flying across the room. It would serve no real purpose, if he's being honest. It wouldn’t make his feelings go away, nor make him feel any less angry for allowing himself to be pulled back into the tide again. And certainly nothing will be solved when he is left cleaning up the broken glass and dying flowers off the floor after his temper tantrum.

Oliver puts it back down on his desk and watches the water swirl around the vase, the moonlight reflecting off of it and onto his dark shirt. The shadows echo the emotions spinning inside him. His chest feels constricted and his mind is left in a post-hurricane mess.

The following day, everything changes. He’s late for work, so his breakfast is a speedy process. He doesn’t look at the flowers once. His boss gives him a new and more arduous assignment. He drinks two more cups of coffee that morning, but it’s enough to keep him completely focused on his task. His mind doesn’t waver for one second.

When he’s back home, Oliver looks at his vase and realizes he didn’t let his thoughts consume him that day. He thinks there’s a small window of opportunity here. If he gets rid of the flowers now, while he still can, they’ll be gone from his life and he won’t look back again.

So he does. He allows himself one last touch at the velvety remains of those poor flowers, feeling the petals fall apart under his fingers. He throws them into the trashcan, washes the vase and puts it away again. He takes the trash out that night, for good measure.

There. He should be good now. Taking a deep breath, he feels lighter. Not everything is miraculously okay again, but he feels like he has more room to breathe now. From here on out, everything’s progress. And he won’t think about Connor ever again. He’s run out of chances.

He takes a quick shower, feeling the hot water falling on his back, and washes away any residual doubts about his decision. He deserves better than a bouquet of dying flowers with no more words to support this apologetic action.

Oliver goes to bed with a clear mind, falling into a peaceful sleep.

It’s almost 6 a.m. when he’s woken up by frantic knocking on his door. He frowns all the way there and takes a couple of moments to just breathe after he sees who’s on the other side of the door. Is the universe that invested in turning his life upside down on every turn?

Another set of knocking. He rolls his shoulders and unlocks the door. When he opens it, he’s greeted with a lopsided smile, a bit on the crazy side. He is so done with everything right now, he won’t even pretend otherwise.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Connor says, way too chipper. There's a fake laugh veiling the madness shining in his eyes, as the smell of smoke spreads across the third floor of the building.

And not too long after, Connor is sliding down the wall next to Oliver’s door. He breaks into a panic attack, and, like a broken record, keeps saying that he’s screwed up. It scares and worries Oliver.

He feels his protective walls tremble as he crouches down beside Connor. He places a hand on his shoulder, and tells him that everything will be okay, even though he knows it’s not that simple. He can feel the impending catastrophic fall deep down in his chest, just as he tells Connor to come inside and tell him everything.

But he still does it, because he’s Oliver, and this is Connor, and because his living room still smells faintly of pale yellow roses.


End file.
